


out of touch

by orphan_account



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Canon Compliant, Chapter rewrite, M/M, i love my son Basilton, with a lot of internal monologue added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 17:17:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16371818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: baz realizes hes in love w simon





	out of touch

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first time ive written snowbaz fic in.... a long time  
> but ive been listening to the audiobook so much recently that my internal monologue now has a british accent, so here is the product of this obsession  
> i originally wasnt gonna include exact dialogue in here, but it seemed strange without it

It’s been a few months since Snow started following me into the Catacombs. When he first began trailing me at the beginning of the semester, I had figured he would do as much the second I started actively needing to feed throughout the school year. I had just recently begun feeling the worst side effects of vampirism, the bloodlust, the hunger that became nearly unmanageable after maybe about a week without any blood (I tried going without it once, that summer before fifth year. I lasted five days before I gave in and drained one of the ponies).

Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly adventurous (or maybe just idiotic), I let Snow get close enough to me along the trail that I can see him, far back along the hall, his sword usually out, and a glow emanating from his wand. I’ve never had to take such measures down here; the rumor that vampires can see better in the dark is true, after all.

It brings me some sort of sick pleasure knowing that Snow wastes his nights away, stalking me through these dingy, skull-lined tunnels like it’s his life’s purpose. I stay hidden in the shadows, draining rats when I know there’s no possible way he could find me, and then mess with him, leave the carcasses around, kick a stray skull every now and again.

But after nearly four months of the Chosen One following me like a damned puppy, the small amount of pleasure I used to derive from watching him stumble his way through the underground labyrinth vanished, and I was simply left tired and irritable. And Crowley, did Snow always look tired too. I spelled myself awake frequently throughout the school day, because even though I’m not human (and am arguably dead), I still feel the effects of getting literally no sleep for months, because Simon fucking Snow is entirely convinced I’m a vampire (he’s not wrong), and that he’s going to catch me somehow (he’s definitely wrong about that part; I’m not an idiot, inclined to leave behind any direct evidence to myself. Everything is speculation, really. That’s what Penny tells Snow whenever he gets worked up in class or the dining hall) (Yes, I can hear them from my table. The perks of being undead).

It’s after Christmas break that I begin smuggling alcohol into Watford with me. Just a flask or two, originally, stolen from father’s shelves before the holidays were over. Drinking while Snow was tailing me wasn’t the most intelligent idea, so I usually kept it to a minimum, or curled up somewhere he would never discover with his shabby finding spells.

One particular night, though, I find myself in the tomb of infants, the ones who died during the plague hundreds of years ago, and my grip on the flask in my pocket grows tighter. There’s something eternally dreary about dead children, even drearier than these bloody Catacombs. My senses are already slightly dulled from a few swigs of the flask, and it’s enough that I can’t find myself to care that Snow is probably closing in on my location. I slump against the wall of bones, and slide onto the dusty floor, my knobby legs stretching in front of me (I had grown quite a bit this past summer; thank Merlin I’m still taller than Snow. It pisses him off to no end). My uniform begins to smell like rot as the stagnant air soaks into it, and I pull out the silver flask, downing a good quarter of it in one gulp, and nearly coughing it up as I pull it away from my mouth. I grimace, and my fangs threaten to pop out, digging into my gums like a particularly painful bit of food is stuck between my teeth. I lean my head back against the haphazard array of skeletons, staring out into the darkness, hearing the occasional rat scurry along the stones. It’s peaceful for a good length of time; I slowly drain the flask like I would one of those rats, and my thoughts become fuzzier, and I start to relax for what feels like the first time in months. The alcohol is nearly gone when I see a slight shimmer on the fringes of darkness, like a shoddy light spell from a particularly useless magician. I hear someone clanking along, someone who obviously lacks any sort of stealth, with heavy footsteps and shuffling intermixed. Snow has finally found me, and I’m completely fucking drunk.

 

He comes into view sometime later (I’ve no idea how long it takes; time isn’t even really a concept I’m familiar with at the moment). I fancy myself to be a pretty rational person, and in hindsight I realize letting Snow see me drunk and vulnerable was probably a bloody awful idea, but my wits have left me at this point. Snow approaches cautiously, and when his ring of light finally lands on me, his eyes go wide. He cannot possibly believe he’s finally found me; I can’t either, really. 

His blade is out (predictable; leave it to the most powerful mage to rely almost solely on his sword). I relax against the wall, seemingly content in my corner (it’s definitely the alcohol; Fiona wasn’t lying when she said it was calming). 

“You found me,” I state, because I’m drunk and vaguely delirious and Snow’s hair is glowing in the light of his wand, like something ethereal and beautiful. (Beautiful? What the fuck am I thinking? Am I drunk?) (Yes. Very.)

Snow’s stance is defensive, like he thinks I’m going to spring at him from my fairly uncomfortable spot on the floor. 

“I knew I would.” 

His overwhelming confidence makes an appearance, of course. I don’t bother standing; I brush some dirt off my trousers and slouch further into the corner.

“Now what?”

“Now you tell me what you’re up to.”

I laugh, a monotone sound. Leave it to Snow to take the most direct route. He squares his shoulders, puffing out his chest like the moronic numpty he is.

“They died in a plague,” I say as my mind wanders to the skulls embedded in the walls around us. 

“Who?” he asks, and I raise my hand towards the wall. Snow recoils, and I raise my eyebrow, spreading my arm in one dramatic movement, motioning to the eye sockets watching us.

“Them,” I say. “ _ Les enfants. _ ”

“Is that why you’re here? To track down a plague?”

I stare, my eyes locked on him. I can feel my face twist into condescension (it’s a look that comes easily to me). “Yes, Snow. I’m here to find a plague. I’m going to put it in a steaming beaker and infect all of Metropolis.” 

A lock of hair has fallen into my face, and I stare at him with bored eyes, watching him grip his sword tighter. “What are you doing down here?” he demands again.

“Sitting,” I reply, because I do love watching him get angry, feeling his magic rise to the surface.

“ _ No _ . None of that. I’ve finally caught you, after all these months--you’re going to tell me what you’re up to.” ( _ Caught me? _ I think.  _ You’ve only found me because, against my better judgement, I  _ let  _ you _ .)

I glance back at the wall. “Most of the students died,” I reply, my drunken train of thought returning back to the tomb.

“Stop it. Stop distracting me.” 

I continue on. “They sent the well ones home. My great-great-uncle was the headmaster; he stayed to help nurse the sick and dying. His skull is down here, too. Maybe you could help me look for it--I’m told I share his aristocratic brow.”

Snow’s jaw clenches. “I’m not listening.”

“Magic didn’t help them. They didn’t have a spell for the plague yet. There weren’t any words that had enough power, the right kind of power.” 

He steps forward towards me, cautiously. “What are you doing here?” he asks again, because his vocabulary is pathetic at best.

Of course, my muddled mind chooses this particular moment to be a creepy fuck; I could blame it on the ambience (sitting on the floor of a tomb of children was certainly disturbing to begin with), or the drunkenness, but I know the truth is just that I’m a creepy bloke.

I start singing to myself, “Ring around the rosie,” a soft melody that echoes quietly in the Catacombs. 

Snow lashes out, running his sword through a pile of bones and scattering along the ground. I spell them back into place. “Show some respect, Snow,” I sneer, knocking my head back against the wall again. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to know what you’re up to,” he replies immediately.

“This is what I’m up to,” I state, gesturing around me. His face twists, a disgusted expression forming.

“Sitting in a fucking tomb with a bunch of bones.”

I sway slightly, but I don’t think he notices. “They’re not just bones. They’re  _ students _ . And teachers. Everyone who dies at Watford is entombed down here.” I think of my mother, in this moment.

Snow interrupts my thoughts. “So?”

“ _ So? _ ” I repeat, just to rile him up. He growls.

“Look, Snow…” I begin, sliding my legs back and pushing against the wall, rising to my full height. “You’ve been following me, looking for me. And now you’ve found me. It’s not my fault if you still haven’t found what you’re looking for. 

“I know what you are,” he blurts. I feel like I’m in fucking  _ Twilight _ .

“Your roommate?” I reply, because I know it will properly piss him off. I step closer. “Tell me. Tell me, Snow.  _ What am I? _ ”

His blade rises, and he spits at me. “ _ Vampire! _ ” he shouts, and I hear the syllables bounce off the walls into the distance. I giggle.

“Really? You think I’m a  _ vampire _ ? Well, Aleister Crowley, what are you going to do about  _ that _ ?” My voice takes on a condescending lilt, and his scowl deepens. I feel for the flask in my pocket and drain the last of it. Snow’s sword drops a bit, just a moment, before he hoists it back up again.

“Stake through the heart?” I continue, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms, “Beheading, perhaps? That only works if you keep my head separate from my body, and even then I could still walk; my body won’t stop until it finds my head…. Better go with fire, Snow, it’s the only solution.” I think of my mother again.

His eyes narrow, and he looks moments away from slicing into me. I dare him to.

“Do something. Save the day, Snow. Or the night. Quick, before I….. Hmm….” I tap my finger against my chin, an exaggerated movement, but I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic. “What horrible thing shall I do? It’s too late for everyone down here-- there’s just  _ you _ to hurt, isn’t there?” I watch his pupils dilate. I go on, testing his limits.

“And I don’t think I’m in the mood to suck your blood. What if I accidentally Turned you? Then I’d be stuck with your pious face forever.” (I don’t actually know if this is true. I know fuck-all about vampires.) “I don’t think undeath would improve you, Snow. It would just ruin your complexion.” I giggle, wondering why the everloving fuck I had just said that. My eyes fall shut, and I hear his sword sheath. 

“I don’t have to do anything,” he says. “I know what you are. Now I just have to wait for you to make a mistake.” I wince. 

“Really, Snow? That’s your plan? Wait for me to kill someone? You’re the worst Chosen One who’s ever been chosen,” I say, because I know exactly what puts him in a rage.

“Fuck off,” I hear, and I know I’ve won this argument. I open my eyes, and see his bright blue ones staring back at me as he backpedals through the tomb, slowly, watching me. His bronzed curls look remarkable in the light, and I begin to wonder why I am thinking this (Since when have I been one to dwell on how fit Snow was?) (Since  _ when _ have I realized he’s fit?)

“If I’d known it was this easy to get rid of you,” I call out, “I would’ve let you catch up with me weeks ago!” (And it’s not entirely a lie.)

My back slides down the wall again, my legs folding under me, and I resume my song, listening to Snow shuffle away, his coordination just a bit off. My words meander through the tunnels, bouncing along the bones like a violin melody would in a concert hall. I keep singing, long after Snow has left, because my rational brain has abandoned me, and the song seems appropriate for the situation.

I feel myself beginning to doze off after a bit of time, and deem it safe to return to our room. I drag myself through the tomb, my body heavy with liquor and my stomach sloshing with blood. The darkness eventually disintegrates as I pull myself out of the tunnel, into the grey light of the cathedral. It’s still pitch black out, but the white walls of the church are significantly brighter than the dreary rows of skulls below me. The walk back to Mummer’s seems to stretch endlessly, time bending in my still muddled, albeit slightly more awake, brain. I figure a good shower, as I am covered in bloody cobwebs (those damn spiders), and as much rest as I can get should hopefully sober me up by morning. I nearly trip up the stairwell, and lean heavily against our door, swinging it open, but not loud enough to wake Snow. I really don’t feel like dealing with him right now. 

I see him curled onto his side, facing my bed, curls splayed on his pillow and chest rising softly, an endless array of moles and freckles exposed by his thrown off bed covers.

I trudge to the bathroom, making as little noise as possible, and step into the shower, letting hot water run down my back as I lean my head against the wall. I stand there a few minutes, just staring into the tile by my feet, empty thoughts running through my head, until the water begins to run cold. I scrub my hands through my hair, knowing full well it will be a mess in the morning, and turn the water off. Once dry and properly clothed, I emerge from the bathroom, Snow still sleeping, and my bed so utterly inviting. I slide under the covers, rolling over to find a comfortable position. I end up on my side, and there, across from me, is Simon Snow’s sleeping face, peaceful in deep sleep.

My eyes wander along his scattered freckles, the single mole above his left eye, the three by his ear, and I begin to connect them, finding constellations within them. It’s something that’s become a bit of an unconscious habit lately; when I can’t sleep, I roll over and stare at Snow, studying him closely. Only, now that I’m half drunk still, and deliriously tired, I actually marvel at him (well, I suppose, I admit that I am marveling at him). His stubby eyelashes, his tawny skin, his thatch of glowing curls, like a halo. And it occurs to me, in my half asleep, half drunk state, that Simon Snow is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

The thought doesn’t register in my mind, not really, not in a way where I can recognize its significance. My eyes fall shut, and I can still see the outline of Simon against my eyelids, like a cerebral tattoo. I let his visage lull me to sleep.

 

The next morning, I awake to the sound of aggressive stomping, and feel abrasive sunlight burning through my eyelids. My head thumps with my pulse, as my stolen blood circles through me. I crack my eyes open, and Simon Snow is standing by his dresser, pajama bottoms still on, and shirtless, with an arm stretched over his head. I study his back for a moment, in awe of the muscles, the powerful stretch of them. And then my realization from last night hits me, like a lorry barrelling down the M25. 

_ I’m in love with Simon Snow _ .

  
  
  


Breakfast is absolutely miserable. Not only am I nursing a profound headache, but I can feel Snow’s eyes boring into my forehead, and my thoughts constantly return to my revelation. 

_ Of course I’m in love with him _ , I think.  _ How the bloody hell did I not already see this _ .

It’s just my luck that I’m in love with my arch-nemesis. It took me very little time to accept this once I woke this morning; I’ve known I was gay for years, but I never imagined I’d fall for  _ Simon _ , of all people. The man I’m supposed to hate, to despise, to eventually kill. I decide for now, though, not to think about that part. 

I really am an absolute muppet, though. The gazing at night? The random thoughts of how  _ ethereal _ he is? How did it take me getting drunk off my  _ ass  _ to see this. 

I suppose, though, I’ve always been a bit out of touch with my emotions. I don’t really see myself as human, or living, so emotions always seemed to be something I was disconnected from, like a shoddy telephone line that’s been chewed through by a rat, so only scratchy sounds come through the receiver. 

I marvel at how emotionally stunted I must be.  _ Hate? Love? I suppose it’s the same thing _ , my mind whispers at me. I had spent years confusing the two, and now, just when Snow had decided to trail me like a poor excuse for a spy, I realize the difference between the two.  _ My feelings _ . Disgusting. 

The only choice is to hope they go away. 


End file.
